He Forgets That He Was Someone's Dream

Trapped In Silence, Marco Traces Apologies And Adorations Across Celia's Body With His Tongue. Mutely Expressing All The Things He Cannot Speak Aloud. He Finds Other Ways To Tell Her, His Fingers Leaving Faint Trails Of Ink In Their Wake. He Savors Every Sound He Elicits From Her. The Entire Room Trembles As They Come Together. And Though There Are A Great Many Fragile Objects Contained Within It, Nothing Breaks.

People Are Naive About Such Things, And They Would Rather Write Them Off As Evil Than Attempt To Understand Them. An Unfortunate Truth, But A Truth Nonetheless.

At The Center, Where A Cuckoo Bird Would Live In A More Traditional Timepiece, Is The Juggler. Dressed In Harlequin Style With A Grey Mask, He Juggles Shiny Silver Balls That Correspond To Each Hour. As The Clock Chimes, Another Ball Joins The Rest Until At Midnight He Juggles Twelve Balls In A Complex Pattern. After Midnight The Clock Begins Once More To Fold In Upon Itself. The Face Lightens And The Clouds Return. The Number Of Juggled Balls Decreases Until The Juggler Himself Vanishes. By Noon It Is A Clock Again, And No Longer A Dream.

I Binge Write. I Think It's Because I Started Seriously Writing By Participating In National Novel Writing Month, An Online-based Challenge To Write 50,000 Words In 30 Days.

I Have Had Affairs That Lasted Decades And Others That Lasted For Hours. I Have Loved Princesses And Peasants. And I Suppose They Loved Me, Each In Their Way.